Family Doesn't End with Blood
by peace4people
Summary: A worried Dean calls Bobby late one night, asking for help with a sick Sammy. A multichapter story centered on Bobby's relationship with our favorite (human) brothers as they deal with a nasty case of the flu. A Teenchester story, with flashbacks to Weechester days. Current ages: 19 and 15. Sick!Sam Sick!Dean. Rating for mild language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone! Here is my first Supernatural story which should end up being about four or five chapters. If you read my other work, please be on the lookout for some updates this weekend! And, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!**

* * *

He can hear the phone downstairs ringing wildly, and the only thing that gets him out of bed is the particular phone that's being called. It's has a unique ringer – something higher pitched and quicker paced. It's the phone that sits in between _FBI_ and _CDC_, this one is labeled _Uncle_ and if you ask him, it's the most important phone of them all. The word is written in blue crayon from when Dean was six; it's been three years since Dean's called him Uncle Bobby, and the old paper has begun to yellow, but he doesn't have the heart to throw it away.

The moment he recognizes that shrill ringing, he's out of bed. Racing the stairs two at a time until he finally reaches the receiver. Before he answers the phone, he wonders what mess John has gotten himself into this time. The last time John had called this early, he was concussed and lost on the side of the road.

"Hello?" he waits impatiently for a response but there's nothing, "John, it's nearly three in the morning, if you call me this early, there had better be a damn good..."

"No, it's, uh, it's me..." The reply is mumbled and he can immediately tell that the boy is under some sort of distress.

"Dean? What's wrong, son?" he tries to be as tender as he can. He knows that he babies the kid way too much for a nineteen year old. For heaven's sake, the kid wasn't really a kid anymore, but he feels obligated to make up for all the time he spends with John.

"Sam's been sick..." there's a long pause, and he can hear muffled murmuring in the background, "...and I don't know where Dad is."

"Where are you?" His voice is calm and doesn't reflect the pounding in his chest. If there's one thing you learn from the business, it's how to fake composure.

"About an hour north of Minneapolis." Bobby doesn't even realize it, but he lets out a sigh of relief, the boys are close. He could be there in five hours, maybe four and a half if he doesn't make too many stops.

"How long has your dad been gone?" He wants to jump in his car right now, but these aren't his kids and John would get pissy if even knew about this conversation. The last time he had driven to the boys, John had returned no more than 24 hours later and promptly gave him the "These are my sons. If you want to raise kids, have your own" speech. Idjit.

"It's been about a week..." There's another long pause and more mumbling, "...look, I'm sorry for calling you at this hour. I'm sure he'll show up soon, it's just...whatever...anyways, I can take care of Sammy on my own. Sorry for bothering..."

"Like hell." The words are out of his mouth before he even knows what he's saying, "You and me both know that you wouldn't be calling if this wasn't serious. Sam has the best doctor in the world with you there, but everyone needs a little back up. Anyways, I can hear the exhaustion in your voice. When was the last time you slept?"

"It's been awhile."

"That's what I thought. I'll be there by sunrise." He hangs up the phone before the boy can protest and quickly runs upstairs to pack a small bag. A sick Sammy was no picnic walk. Once, when the boys were staying with him, a six year old Sam had come home from school with a nasty stomach bug.

_ "Why isn't he eating?" Bobby asked turning towards the older brother. As if a ten year old would know anything more than he did about a child's eating habits._

_ "Sammy, eat your damn food." Dean grumbled. _

_ "Dean – language." He's at that age, but it doesn't mean Bobby is going to just let him get away with cussing._

_ "Dad lets me say damn." Dean said as he shoveled more food into his mouth. Bobby rolled his eyes, playing through all the things he'd never say: _your daddy also lets you help him hunt, but that doesn't make it right.

_ "You sure you're okay, son?" Bobby asked taking in the younger boy's unusually pale complexion and rosy cheeks. Bobby looked over and could see Dean's mind turning like clock gears, although he's clueless as to what the boy is thinking._

"_Sammy, come here," he spoke softly, a complete contrast to his earlier tone; the smaller boy obliged and maneuvered his way towards Dean. Once there Dean placed the back of his hand on Sam's forehead, he frowned. "Your tummy hurt?"_

_A nod._

"_Like it's full of yuckiness?"_

_A double nod._

"_Want to lie down?"_

_That time Sam doesn't nod or shake his head. Instead, the poor boy just throws up right there, half of it landing on Dean. Sam begins to cry and Bobby freezes. "It's alright, Sammy, I didn't like these shoes anyways. Now I have a good excuse to throw them out. Shhh, it'll be okay."_

But illnesses always hit that boy hard, and they spent the next few days in a local hospital to make sure the kid kept hydrated. Bobby shudders at the memory and prays to any being above that his poor immune system wasn't something he still possessed. As he zips up his duffle, he can't help but think this wasn't exactly how he had planned to spend his weekend off, "Balls."

* * *

**A/N: And there you have it! Please let me know what you think! As promised you'll get some sick!Sammy in the next chapter and some sick!Dean as well.**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks to all those who read and/or reviewed the first chapter! It means a lot to me!_

* * *

It's a little before eight in the morning when Dean hears the knock at the door. The familiar rap tap tap pattern that Bobby always uses – he likes to believe that no monster is smart enough to pick it up, and so far, he's been right. Still, Dean opens the door cautiously with one hand on the butterfly knife in his back pocket.

"Don't worry, it's just me." Bobby says as he scans over the older boy quickly. Frankly, the kid looked like hell; the only hint of color on his face came from the green of his eyes which stood in deep contrast to his otherwise ghostly complexion. If he wasn't already sick, it wouldn't be long until he was. _Balls_.

"Bobby," Dean's shoulders relax and he envelopes the man in a hug, "it's good to see you."

"You too, boy." Bobby sets his duffle bag on the small kitchen table, "How's your brother?"

"He's doing better...I think. He slept a whole lot last night and his breathing is less congested than it's been the last few days. His fever though, it's uh...it's been bad, Bobby. It was 104, then 105...that's when I called you, he had started hallucinating."

"Where is he?" Bobby asks surveying the rather large room. There's a kitchenette and large sofa (where Dean has obviously been sleeping – _dumbass, that surely ain't doing him any favors_) but no Sammy in sight. These weren't normal hunter digs and Dean could see the confusion on the older man's face.

"Other room. They only had a deluxe suite available when we checked in, then Sammy got sick and I thought it would be better if we just stayed put."

"That was a good decision, son." Bobby places a hand on his shoulder and watches as Dean's mouth hints at a smile. He looks away quickly, clears his throat and motions his head for Bobby to follow him into the other room.

"Sammy?" Dean whispers getting closer to the curled up figure; mounds of blankets cover what Bobby can only assume is the youngest Winchester, "Sammy – Bobby's here."

"Uncle Bobby?" ha, so maybe he still was _Uncle_ Bobby_._ He maneuvers himself over to the boy and sits down on the edge of his bed, immediately he can feel the heat radiating from the kid.

"How you doing son?" Sam shrugs as he tries to sit up but Dean gently pushes him back down. It happens so smoothly and naturally that Bobby wonders if Sam even realizes what's happened. Dean kneels down next to him and runs a hand through Sam's hair a few times before letting it rest on his forehead.

"You're a lot cooler than before, but you're still at least 102. I'm going to go get some aspirin from my bag – you need anything else?" Dean asks as he stands up – a small shake of the head dismisses him and he exits the room.

"So what's wrong, kiddo?" Bobby asks as he rubs Sam's leg in a soothing pattern, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." The poor kid looks a mess. His hair lays matted to his forehead with sweat, his entire body is shockingly pale except for the crimson fever stains on his face.

"Well you and I both know that's not true or Dean wouldn't have called me."

"Dean called you because he's worried. I don't mean about me being sick – he's worried about Dad."

"What are you talking about? Dean said he's been gone a week...now I know that seems like a long time but depending on what he's hunt..."

"Bobby, it's been three."

"What?"

"It's been three weeks. I've been pretty out of it, but I hear Dean, when he thinks I'm asleep. He's been calling Dad like crazy but we haven't heard anything back yet."

"Listen to me," Bobby's hand stops moving, "Don't you worry about your Daddy none. Dean told me you've been running some pretty high fevers – there's a good chance you've been losing track of time, maybe hearing things that aren't being said. I'll talk to Dean, just in case, but you need to just focus on getting better. Okay?"

"Yes sir." He sees something new in the boy's eyes and he begins to worry that maybe his words came out too harshly. But whatever it is quickly vanishes when Dean reenters the room.  
"These'll knock you right out, Sammy." Dean says with a gallant smile as he unscrews the cap and shakes out a few pills. He hands them over and watches as his brother swallows them down with the stale water from last night. He grimaces, "Alright. Bobby and I are going to be in the other room, you know the drill – call if you need me."

"Thanks, Dean." And just like that, Sam is asleep again. Bobby watches as the older boy struggles to walk back into the living room. His face ever paler than before and he squints his eyes away from what little light occupies the dark motel room.

"You feeling okay, kiddo? Bobby asks as he sits in the armchair adjacent to the couch.

"'m fine." Dean's voice is gruffer than usual – an omen for the impending sore throat he'll soon by plagued with.

"You going to take some of those yourself?" Bobby motions towards the bottle of pills.

"Why would I?" A look over at the older man says he isn't buying the façade, Dean rubs a hand over his face, "Look, I said, I'm fine."

"You're stubborn. That's what you are." Bobby leans back in the chair, and prays for a little sleep before all hell breaks loose. He doesn't have a good feeling about any of this. About the sick kid in the other room, the idjit he was looking at right now or the fact that their dad was nowhere to be found.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks again for reading and reviewing : )_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing :) **

* * *

"Uncle Bobby," a hand is shaking his shoulder, and as much as he wants to continue sleeping, he remembers where he is and sits straight up. He lets out a yawn, "Wha's wrong, Sam?"

The boy gazes at the shut door a few feet away, "I think something's wrong with Dean."

He brings a hand up to his face and rubs at his tired eyes. He takes a long look at the younger boy and notices that he seems to be doing a little better. He lays a calloused hand against the kid's forehead, "Your fever is definitely breaking. Why don't you lie down on the couch and try to get some more rest while I go check on Dean."

"Yes sir." Sam obliges and plops down on the checkered pattern couch. Bobby walks over to the sink and fills up a glass of water which he hands to Sam. He removes the flask from his own pocket and takes a long swig before walking over to the bathroom door. The Winchesters were the best boys he had ever met; on the other hand, sick Winchesters were infamously stubborn. He takes a deep breath and knocks.

"Go away, Sammy." A hoarse voice yells through the door, he knocks again "Dammit, Sammy. Leave me alone."

"First of all, it ain't Sam. Second, you better as hell not talk to your brother that way – now open this door, boy." No more than half a second later does the door swing open to reveal a sweaty and shivering Dean.

"What?" Dean asks, as his foggy eyes try and focus on the older man in front of him. He sways on his feet and Bobby reaches out both hands to steady him.

"Stop, 'm fine." Dean swats his hands away with a frown and, against his better judgment, Bobby lets go.

"Why don't we get you into bed?" Bobby asks concerned. He can't remember ever seeing the boy in this bad of shape.

"S'mmyneedsthebedhehastoslee'" his speech is mumbled and every sentence comes out as one long word.

"He's on the couch now" Bobby answers reassuringly, "but we really need to get you into bed, son."

He nods reluctantly. Dean moves slowly with Bobby a few inches behind him, just in case his body decides to suddenly give in, "I really don't feel that bad. Just a headache."

Bobby doesn't know if he should laugh or role his eyes at that statement. When he gets the boy in bed, he hands him the thermometer.

"Come on, Bobby..." Dean tries to argue as he turns his head away from the device.

"Humor me." Bobby says handing it back to him, "If it's below 101, I'll get off your case. If it's above that, you listen to me for the next few days. Deal?"

Dean nods his head and grabs the thermometer back, sticking it underneath his own tongue. They wait in silence as Dean tries to look past his nose at the increasing reading. After a few seconds, the device lets out three quick beeps. Bobby snatches it from the boy's hand not trusting the young Winchester to truthfully relay the numbers, "101.1"

"Bobby, come on, that barely counts..."

"Look, boy, it's about time that you start learning a deal is a deal. You can't go back on your word, no matter what you've promised." Dean lets out a groan and leans back against the headboard.

Bobby looks down at him sympathetically, "You really should try to get some rest, Dean, you look like hell."

"Thanks, Bobby."

His sarcasm is returned with an innocent shrug, "Just being honest."

"You said Sammy's doing better?" Dean asks bringing a hand up to his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"His fever broke; I think he's just got some sniffles and a left over cough at this point."

"Good." Dean answers with a nod. He continues to rub his hand across his face, stopping at his temples and massaging them slightly.

"You have a headache?" Bobby asks with a frown.

"Honestly – I have an everything-ache" Dean answers with what Bobby can only imagine is a sorry attempt at his usually lively smile. He reaches for the bottle of pills that Dean had given Sam earlier.

"Take these." Bobby shakes out two pills and hands them to the boy. He stands up to get him a glass of water but Dean has already dry swallowed them.

"Practice." Dean answers reading the man's confused face, "Dad says that you can't always count on having water around."

"Hey, Dean?" Bobby asked suddenly remembering the conversation he had with Sam earlier, "Why did you call me here?"

"I already told you...Sammy was really sick. I guess I just freaked out."

"That's all?" He watches the boy tense

"Of course, Bobby." Dean says nodding, "That's all."

"Uh-huh. Well, why don't you try and get some rest, okay?" The boy nods and moves to a laying position.

"Wake me up if Sammy need me." Bobby nods and quietly exits the room.

He looks over to ensure the youngest Winchester is still asleep before he opens the door and walks outside to the nearest payphone. He can feel his body temperature rise with anger as he dials the last known number he has for John. He can't say he's surprised when it goes to voicemail, "Now, you listen here – I don't know where the hell you are. Or how long you've been gone for. Frankly, I don't give a damn. But you better man up, and get back your ass back here to your boys."

* * *

**A/N: I have mixed feelings about how this chapter turned out (but that might be because I'm battling my own summer cold - blergh), so reviews would be very much appreciated. Lots more sick!Dean coming up. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for waiting, school got the better of me but here it is : ) Hope it was worth the wait.**

* * *

When Bobby was seven he had scarlet fever. Yes, full-on _Velveteen Rabbit_, scarlet fever. The first night he got sick his father came storming into his room, "I didn't have a son so he could wimp out from a cold." The next morning Bobby woke up and, despite the crippling headache and fever, he went to school like normal. In the evening he began on his chores. It wasn't until the rash showed up and his fever spiked past 103, that he finally allowed himself to sleep.

As an adult Bobby had twisted his ankle while trying to fix a hole in his roof. The next morning he tried to get up but his wife gently pushed him back into bed "the breeze is nice and if it rains, it'll be an adventure" she insisted. And when it sprinkled two days later, they spent the entire night laughing at the pitter-patter of rain as it fell into the pot they had placed beneath the hole.

When Dean was three he had strep throat. It was the worst case of it that Lawrence had ever seen; "if he gets this sick again, we'll need to remove the tonsils" the doctor had explained Mary. She cradled the small boy against her chest, pushing back the sweat stained hair that clung to his forehead. Sam hadn't been born yet and the doctor advised her to stay away from the sick child lest her compromised immune system make it harder to fight off infections while pregnant. But she refused to set Dean down, and he refused to let go.

At fifteen Dean had "just a stomach ache, let it go Sammy." John had brought Bobby along on a shape shifter hunt and the two brothers had argued the entire way to Mississippi. "Sam, stop bothering your brother. Dean, man up and stop complaining," John had said not taking his eyes off the road. A few hours later, when Dean shouted for his dad to pull the car over, he refused to let anyone help him as he stumbled to the side of the road and expelled the meager contents of his stomach.

It was amazing what time did.

"Bobby?" Dean walks into the living room, the thin motel blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders; he sniffles and tries to suppress a cough. The boy sways slightly on his feet but catches himself before he falls.

"What are you doing up, kiddo?" Dealing with a sick Dean was like a game of chess. Bobby had to weigh all of his options before he made any moves. One wrong step could cost him the entire game – he decided to stay seated for now.

"I just wanted to make sure Sam was okay." Dean looks down at the sleeping form on the couch, the congestion causing him to snore lightly, Dean smiles and motions to the kid, "But I guess I have my answer."

"How are you feeling?" It's a dangerous move but the kid looks a mess and Bobby just wants to help him. His flushed cheeks are a deep contrast to his otherwise pale complexion.

"I'm fine." He goes over to the sink and fills up a glass of water. He winces as the cold liquid battles its way down his swollen throat. He takes one more sip before dumping the rest of the cup down the drain.

"How about you try that again...but with the truth this time?" Bobby stands up and searches for the thermometer. Sometimes you had to take risks in chess, this was one of them. He walks up and hands the devise to the boy.

"What do you want me to say, Bobby?" Dean argues pushing the thermometer away, "That I feel like shit? What good does that do?"

Bobby frowns, "Don't be stubborn, boy. I'm here to help you."

"No, I called you here to help Sam," Dean sets the blanket down on the counter and crosses his arms firmly against his body, "I don't need anyone's help."

Sam stirs at the arguing; still half asleep and slightly disoriented he mumbles, "Dean, Dad – what's going on?"

Dean ignores him and turns back to Bobby, "In case you haven't noticed, I can handle myself just fine."

"In case you haven't noticed," Bobby says copying him, "you haven't been doing too swell of a job."

"Calling you was a mistake." Dean looks down at his feet, thinks for a moment and then quietly adds, "Maybe you should just go."

"What?" he reaches out and gently lays his hand on the boy's upper arm, it's only then that he can feel the incredible heat radiating off his skin, "Son you're burning up. I think you're confused and slightly dehydrated."

"I'm fine," Dean quickly shrugs him off, and repeats with more vibrato "I'm fine, Bobby but I think you need to leave."

"You're not fine." He shakes his head and turns to the sink to fill up another glass of water for Dean.

"What's going on?" Sam asks now sitting upright on the couch.

"Nothing, just go back to bed, Sam." Dean's voice is too stern for him and that's all the confirmation Bobby needs to know the boy is really out of it. It's only now that Bobby can see all of Dean's telltale signs of a high fever, of course hindsight was always 20/20.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam stands up and is at his brother's side in a second.

"Nothing – I told you, go back to bed." He turns to the older man, "Bobby, just leave."

"You don't mean that." He isn't hurt by the words, "That's your fever talking."

Dean brushes past Sam, "If you're not going, I am."

The door slams loudly behind him. Checkmate.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I suck sorry about the cliffhanger. Please let me know what you think.**


End file.
